


A Sound Like Confession

by canadascockpit



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Quickies, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadascockpit/pseuds/canadascockpit
Summary: A short one-shot about a semi-secluded, completely stupid tryst.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	A Sound Like Confession

“This is a blessing for you, I’ll have you know,” Bilbo says with a straight face. Thorin merely glares at him, letting the branches he carries fall and clatter at his boots. 

Bilbo’s keen, bright eyes scan the forest. They stand in the heavy shade within a dense copse of trees, far off from the camp and the rest of the bustling dwarrows. They are more than sufficiently hidden from view. The afternoon is breezeless, warm and fragrant. A smattering of wispy clouds decorates the sky and Bilbo can glimpse their cotton edges through the thin gaps in the thick canopy of leaves above. 

“You would consider me blessed and not yourself?” Thorin asks, mockingly petulant. 

Bilbo chuckles. “That sounds about right.” He sits down with Thorin on the gnarled roots of a massive oak tree. The dwarrow’s face floods with perturbation like he’s about to sneeze. Bilbo realizes half-belatedly that he might have offended him. 

“That was a joke, Thorin.” 

“I should hope so,” that intoxicating voice rumbles like thunder. “I am quite a catch.” Who knew that Thorin could crack a joke? Even a little one? Bilbo snorts indecently and looks at the ground to cover his inexplicable blush. 

They managed to slip away from the rest of the company under the pseudo-task of searching for wood and branches for the fire. Thorin nodded his head at Bilbo in wordless order, Bilbo dutifully and silently accompanying him into the woods, not completely unaware of the exiled King’s rather naughty intentions. Because eye contact is a frightening and meaningful thing, to delve into someone’s thoughts and simultaneously be delved into in the most intimate way. It has been happening a lot lately between the two of them. Thorin, without warning, cleaves the air between them with his glance; perhaps across a swell of clopping ponies, or between the curtails of densely packed trees. Eyes wander, reaching for the warmth of the other as they settle closely in front of the blazing fire. Those myriad words left unsaid burning, all-consuming, in Thorin’s eyes, so heated with unmasked desire it belies the glacial blue of his irises. Bilbo holds the dwarrow's gaze because it’s all he can do. It’s all he could ever hope to do. 

Bilbo wonders, _Am I prepared to be propositioned by royalty? Probably not. Especially not Thorin, a dwarrow as thick-headed as a mountain troll._

He doubts that neither himself nor Thorin will ever be truly ready to handle one another in such a way. Or, in _any_ way really. Half the time they are at each other’s throats. The other half their energy is poured into ignoring each other completely. What has changed? When has all that disdain turned to blatant, uncompromising desire? What an odd and fickle thing it is to lust after another. How its strangeness makes it even more precious to Bilbo, makes him act out on impulse before the attraction can slip away from them both like so much water in their hands. The hobbit wants to covet that oh-so-tempting and exhilarating feeling like a dwarrow and his gold. Each glance in Thorin’s direction stirs the trouble-rousing Took inside of him to wakefulness and he can scarcely breathe for the desire of the other. 

So, unthinkingly, Bilbo finds himself sitting between Thorin’s rather too-large legs, sprawled in the dirt somewhat awkwardly. Unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, this is before his mind has the chance to convince him of all the reasons that this is a horrendously bad idea. Thorin’s face is lit by pinpricks of shifting golden light filtering through the leaves above. His eyes are clear and flickering over Bilbo’s face, intensely serious and wondering all at once. The hard-set lines in that visage seem to lessen as he gazes at Bilbo. Something blooms in the exiled king’s expression, akin to tenderness. 

Bilbo thinks, rather treacherously, _Quite unintentionally, I might fall in love with this infuriating dwarrow._ And how, really, can he believe this to be true? On what basis other than the physical sense does this emotion stand? Bilbo’s morals are not consistent with the force of his desire for Thorin. Certainly, he will not be intimate with a creature after mere weeks of knowing him, but– 

But Thorin touches him then as if sensing his doubts, perhaps an effort to dispel them. His thumb and forefinger brush the tapered edge of Bilbo’s ear where it juts out of his hair, tracing its sensitive shell with his blunt nail. His enormous palm goes to cup the back of Bilbo’s skull, nestling itself amongst the soft, honeyed curls. His touch is warmer than anything Bilbo has known since this cold and lonesome journey began. 

“That feels… excellent,” Bilbo breathed. 

Thorin hums in response, evidently pleased. He does not cease his gentle, exploring caresses, stroking the hobbit’s hair and cheek. Bilbo simply cannot believe that this is happening. His shock increases as his own actions get bolder, seemingly unwittingly – such is the nature of most of the hobbit's acts as of late. 

Bilbo touches Thorin in turn, he can’t help it, his hand skirting the other’s crotch area till he can feel the shape of his cock through the fabric of his trousers. He begins stroking him superficially. Squeezing, palming, and rousing the exiled king to hardness, his left hand resting on Thorin’s strong hip. The dwarrow begins breathing heavily through his nose. His hand rises from Bilbo’s head to allow him better access. It hovers, unsure, then falls to his side. 

Bilbo finds and cups his balls, rolling them and pressing them with the curve of his palm. Thorin stares at him intensely and seems about ready to cuss him out, his brows drawing together, his exhales rasping loudly in his throat. 

“Enough, burglar,” Thorin says forcefully. Not so far as to yell, but it makes Bilbo startle. His tone relents just a bit, subdued by Bilbo’s unnerved expression, as he says: “I feel like my sanity is slipping with these teasing touches.” 

The dwarrow’s breathing hitches ever so slightly when Bilbo palms his arousal again almost mutinously. Thorin gives Bilbo an oddly discomforted look as if he was challenged by something much smaller and meeker than himself. _A wolf angered at the too-quick little hare,_ Bilbo thinks. 

“Well, mine has abandoned me long ago. Around the time I ran out of my cozy smial chasing after this foolish journey and an even more foolish dwarrow.” 

Bilbo feels heat creep up his neck. His eyes gravitate of their own accord to the outline of the other’s arousal. He knows Thorin is staring at him, but he refuses to meet his gaze this time. He unties Thorin’s trousers and after a moment's hesitation pulls out his cock, which is already half-hard in his hand and flushed a deep red. His size is impressive and it makes Bilbo’s mouth water in wanton abandon. Just the prospect of being out in the open air – or perhaps the feeling of Bilbo’s firm grip on his most sensitive bit – makes Thorin groan lowly. The tip of his cock leaks dribbles of pre-cum, darkening to a comely shade of purple as he hardens further practically without attention. 

“Despite your efforts to make it seem otherwise, you have been most eager from the start, burglar,” Thorin almost pants. “If I knew just exactly what it was you were chasing after I would have bedded you the instant I had you alone.” 

Bilbo purses his mouth into a silly smirk. Happily, he fondles Thorin with two hands. The little hobbit feels himself losing more of his own sanity along the line of what is right and what is not, teetering precariously on the edge of all-encompassing, nonsensical lust for this foolhardy dwarrow. 

“I like to see you like this,” Bilbo says. Some time ago, mysteriously, Bilbo began to hunger for Thorin. A pang that far surpasses the pain of all those missed meals. The burglar has imagined this moment countless times, curling up in his bedroll, silently aching with unsatiated desire. Thorin’s arousal looks better than he ever could have imagined. The dwarrow’s eyes are practically swimming with lust, his face flushed to a pretty shade of pink. “You are completely at my whims.” 

Thorin pauses, curling his lips ever so slightly downwards. “Are you mocking me?” His tone suggests the edges of warning, although his body trembles with carnal need as he mindlessly knots a hand in his own dark hair and disrupts the elegant braids at the front. Thorin watches Bilbo pleasuring him; the diminutive hobbit watches the great dwarrow intently in turn. Bilbo swears for a moment he sees Thorin nibble his lip. A nervous habit? _Oh, Yavanna._

“Mocking you? Now, what would give you that impression?” Bilbo chortles. 

And perhaps he should not have said _that_ as he watches Thorin’s look visibly darken before him, his pupils contracting into tiny pinpricks of swirling black ink. The dwarrow's posture is vaguely reminiscent of a great angry bear, looming over him, awash in heat and potential violence. 

“You see your power over me,” is all Thorin musters, with that characteristic vein of strength and crossness. 

Despite the evident reversal of power, Bilbo feels small beneath the sky, amongst the trees, between the massive legs of this frowning exiled king. 

“Still, you do not trust me. Even at our most intimate. I curse every day the suspicious nature of dwarves,” Bilbo huffs. He refuses to be waylaid by Thorin’s stubbornness, however; his hands never cease their delicate ministrations. Bilbo desires Thorin like he desires the air, instinctively. And he isn’t in the business of denying himself his needs.

“You wish for me to trust you?” Thorin asks between gritted teeth, rolling his hips despite himself to increase that delicious friction. Bilbo groans because he hadn’t expected such confrontation when Thorin’s cock is still throbbing with each gentle stroke of his tiny hands. The gentle-hobbit looks upwards as if for guidance in the clouds. The whispering of the leaves on the arms of the trees is a pleasant hymn in his ears – the song of thousands of oblong little spirits, urging him on and on to gratification. 

Despite the soothing voice of the forest, for a moment the hobbit despairs. He is wound so tightly lately the barest hint of trouble sends him spiralling. Bilbo wants to howl until his chest feels lighter and his throat aches. Or until his mind is at ease again. He wants desperately to forget about everything that's happened and all that can go wrong on this blasted journey and in the arms of this horrendously stubborn ex-royal. Most of all he longs to recover that blissful indifference to the world outside his books and the comfort of his hobbit-hole, when the weight of every adventure and every impossible task within those stories felt like faraway burdens that he couldn’t possibly comprehend, utterly at peace with this fact. 

No, no, no. That's not it. What Bilbo wants now above all is to earn this dwarrow’s trust. Stupidly. Stubbornly. Unexpectedly. A burglar is only a creature of flesh and bone and heart, after all. He needs Thorin to sate the desires that his body sings to him daily. But the gentle-hobbit in him also needs something solid and unwavering, a heart intertwined with his own to tell me him that this is indeed real, that he is worthy and capable of such a quest. 

But Bilbo won’t say any of this, he couldn’t possibly bring himself to form the words and speak into Thorin’s eyes – the only right way to confess his true feelings. So he will pleasure Thorin until he forgets about how terrified he is for them both; he will fill the air with the sound of Thorin’s gasps and moans, a sound like confession. 

The burglar feels that he remains honest, if only by omission, as he says, “Thorin, I do not wish for much now except to have you in my mouth.” 

Bilbo looks up and Thorin who was staring at him in a blatant attempt to discern his thoughts. The dwarrow seems to deflate somewhat. His eyes are unreadable as he says: “I will not stop you.”

Bilbo bites his lip, and he does what he always does – makes a dry and witty joke to soothe a too-tense situation. “I’m flattered you will allow it. You seem near virginal in your purity, your royal majesty,” Biblo quipped. “Besides, it’s so easy to refuse a warm and welcome mouth.” 

He hopes Thorin understands he’s only teasing him, humour having always provided him cathartic release. It’s like he’s travelling on unsteady ground with Thorin, his first steps into a new and possibly treacherous land, and it will either be paradisiacal in its beauty or he’ll end up flat on his face with the bruises and bumps to show for it. 

“I am certainly a touch purer than you, burglar. You waste no time. No wonder hobbits are drowning in children.” Thorin rotates his hips, his cock still firm in Bilbo’s grip. “Although I cannot say I do not enjoy your touch.” He grinds out most of this through his gritted teeth. 

Bilbo grins. He thinks that this softer side of Thorin is very endearing, to say in the least. He leans forward, presses his open mouth to the tip of Thorin’s arousal. He takes a moment to breathe warm air over his cock, only to tease him before he begins to lap up Thorin’s pre-cum. He is not hurrying now, intensely interested in the taste of the other. The hobbit’s little candy-pink tongue starts darting along the side of Thorin’s cock, slickening it thoroughly. 

They breathe together, suspended in one moment. Bilbo can sense Thorin’s gaze burning holes into him from above. He hears a bird’s wings flap noisily as it erupts from the branches of a tree and feels his stomach flip twice over, nerves biting at his fingertips, unrelentingly so. The hobbit takes Thorin’s cock deep into his mouth before he loses his courage – takes it as deep as he can manage before resurfacing for breath. He does it again, sucking and rolling his tongue along the tip as he does so. 

Thorin draws in a breath audibly, says something rapidly in Khuzdul that Bilbo can’t understand. It's like the sound of rocks crumbling, elemental in its force. Bilbo assumes whatever it is it can only be good. An exclamation of surprise, words of endearment. It spurs Bilbo on into a near frenzy of lust. Suddenly, he loses the feeling of awkwardness and anxiety. It is just his hungering lips on Thorin’s throbbing member and the sounds, wet and naughty, ringing through the air. The burglar flatters himself, imagining that the exiled king is basking in the enjoyment of what is so readily offered. He tries his hardest to continuously procure noises from Thorin’s lips to cement that wispy belief. Anything really, a groan, a breath, or sweetest of all, a low keen that tumbles from the dwarrow at the most unexpected of moments. Thorin certainly is proving himself to be a vocal lover. And how odd is that? How absolutely unanticipated, yet utterly appealing. All those long nights spent wondering, Bilbo hadn’t ever dared to hope that Thorin would sound this sweet as he came slowly undone at Bilbo’s eager attention. 

A peal of familiar laughter sounds out from far behind them, and Bilbo freezes, realizing, _Oh no, oh no no no, it’s probably Fili and Kili. They’re going to find us and catch us in the act and neither of the boys will ever let us live this down…_

But Thorin’s hands knot in the curls of Bilbo’s hair once again, like spurs, urging him on. His mouth is in a hard line but his eyes flare with unwavering desire. It was like coming up for air after being a beat too long underwater. Bilbo works his mouth faster down on Thorin’s cock, his hand reaching up to pump the thick base, his tongue rolling and flicking and probing at the flushed, heated tip. Thorin’s head lolls back for a moment in abandoned pleasure. It was only a half-second before his neck swivels and he meets Bilbo’s gaze once more, entirely unexpected and intense, though not unpleasant. A vein pulsates in Thorin’s throat, and his breaths come heavy between parted lips. So fierce and regal even in his undoing. Utterly extraordinary. Bilbo figures Thorin is thinking the same of him, he can see it in his eyes – the lust and admiration – and that thought certainly sends a thrill shooting from the ends of Bilbo’s hair to his curling toes. Bilbo has always loved the idea of not being what people expected him to be. Here, right now with Thorin, he is far more than a grocer, a gentle-hobbit, or even a burglar. And it is complete rapture. 

To be desired by this marvellous dwarrow prince, it’s a story stolen from the pages of his books. It makes Bilbo's head spin like there’s too much wine sloshing around in his belly. How could he ever wish to return to that unassailable quiet – how could he doubt himself even _momentarily_ – when he has procured such wanton noises from such a magnificent creature? He feels that some of Thorin’s greatness has rubbed off on him. Grandeur fills the burglar in heady droughts, along with those dribbles of the dwarrow's essence, and leaks into his bloodstream, heartening him ever so, making him better than he once was. 

Bilbo squeezes Thorin in his grip, taking his cock deep into his mouth a final time so that he could feel the tip skid against the back of his throat, his lips kissing his own fist as he sucks with renewed vigour. Thorin reaches his orgasm with a low, prolonged groan. A sound so incredibly raw and guttural Bilbo can scarcely believe it comes from this dwarrow, one typically so withdrawn and taciturn. And it is quite the thing to hear, even better knowing that Bilbo is the one who wrings it from him like a flood from a rag. Thorin’s grip tightens in Bilbo’s hair as he rides out his orgasm in the hobbit’s aching mouth. How unnerving it is to see that Thorin’s gaze never once slips from Bilbo’s own as he reaches his peak. Long spurts of hot cum filling his throat, over and over, until he swallows it thickly, his soft brown eyes never wavering from their fixation on those lust-filled blue orbs. Thorin's sparking gaze is so hot it could wilt the daisies in spring. 

It’s when Thorin’s moans turn to keen whines that Bilbo realizes he’s still holding his cock firmly in his fist, still his mouth suckles on that too-sensitive tip. He pulls off, wipes his lips sheepishly with both hands. His throat and jaw hurts, but the look Thorin gives him makes up for it easily. The dwarrow is absolutely wrecked: his face flushed, the braids in his hair hanging askew, his shirt falling open indecently at the collar and the ties of his trousers loose and open to show that gorgeous cock pink and softening against his leg. His gunmetal blue eyes are hazy now, happy in the afterglow of orgasm. 

“By chance, Gandalf has managed to find the most tolerable of burglars.”

“Tolerable?” Bilbo squeaks. 

A moment passes and Thorin supplies: “Perfectly adequate.” His expression ever so stern, although a certain light meets his eyes, brightness swirling in deep blue wells. 

“Certainly not,” Bilbo huffs. 

Thorin laughs lowly, it toils in his chest like the ringing of a large bell. “Magnificent.” 

“That might be more accurate,” Bilbo smiles. If this exchange isn’t companionable, even intimate, then he doesn’t know the meaning of the words. There's a scuffling in the dense woods startingly close behind them, and Bilbo becomes aware of the problem at hand, to his immense chagrin. Fili and Kili. Less than twenty yards away, probably having come looking for them after their prolonged absence. Bilbo glances at Thorin and they understand one another without words: it is time to end this pleasurable little tryst. 

“I haven’t even kissed you yet,” Thorin blurts, and this was the last thing Bilbo expects to hear from the dwarrow’s mouth. 

“Well, no, you haven’t. Will you?” 

“I suppose I might.” 

Bilbo feels warmth curl in his chest. “Might as well at this point.” 

“I will.” 

“Do it.” 

“Fine.” Thorin picks Bilbo up off the ground and gently hauls him onto his lap. A moment passes where neither of them moves, and then their mouths brush thinly. Another suspended second and Thorin bites his lip, hard – bites him! – and then they kiss. Openly. Passionately. Wasn’t this wrong for a gentle-hobbit of the Shire? Wrong for a creature of his particular, unadventurous habits? It doesn’t feel as terrible as it should feel, or maybe Bilbo is wont to skirt around the things that set him on edge, softening them in his mind. Afraid of jagged edges that could cut and maim. So the calloused hand that cups his jaw and the palm that warms his side, sending chills up his rigid spine, are the things he melts into. 

Thorin smiles rarely, his teeth usually locked behind the harsh prison of his lips. But Bilbo opens them now, warmly and softly, flits his tongue along the other’s sharp canines. It’s shockingly intimate as they share the taste of Thorin’s essence. It sets a fire coursing through the hobbit’s belly. His arousal begins to throb painfully while they kiss, pressing hotly to Thorin’s lap. Embarrassingly, he knows that the dwarrow feels it for he sighs against Bilbo’s lips. 

“I have not been the most considerate lover,” Thorin says, his voice muffled by the force of their lips clashing insistently, also dampened by Bilbo’s panting. 

Bilbo hums, “I suppose not at the moment.” 

He grinds down lamely on Thorin’s lap, his light brows furrowing in slight frustration. Thorin sighs again, warmer now. He snakes a hand between their bodies, unlaces Bilbo’s trousers, fumbling a bit, slipping inside. Thorin’s nephews are egregiously close now, loud and obnoxious and stomping through the brush. If they turn and look carefully through the mass of oak trees they will see them clutching at each other like rabbits in heat. The danger of being caught makes Bilbo even more aroused if it’s possible. Bilbo hears Fili and Kili call their names; his heart races like a frightened hare. But it doesn’t take long for Thorin to finish him off, not long at all. A couple of sloppy strokes and the gentle-hobbit is pushed completely off the edge. He cums over Thorin’s fist and onto his own lap, crying out weakly – more of a lamb-like mewl, really, how unbecoming – and his essence pools over them both. Thorin admires it quietly before Bilbo slumps against him utterly spent. 

Thorin doesn’t grant him more than a moment. “Up.” 

Bilbo whines. “Can I refuse?” 

“No, Bilbo.” Strange to hear his name spring so softly from those characteristically cruel lips. Almost otherworldly. Bilbo finds his gaze lifting hesitantly, trailing over Thorin’s face, committing every rise and jut and curve to memory. Such strong, handsome features. 

“Satisfied?” Thorin asks. 

“Very.” 

“You look it.” His eyes sparkle like gems. Bilbo never wants to forget the look in those eyes. 

The dishevelled hobbit clambers off of Thorin, having the good grace to look embarrassed. Bilbo has thoroughly ruined his pants with both dirt and a more suspicious substance that he is loathe to have produced in such an untidy fashion. Not even Thorin emerges unscathed, splattered as he is with Bilbo's copious cum. The dwarrow tucks himself back into his trousers, righting his collar. His braids are hopeless, for the time being, along with their attire. Bilbo thinks there’s no way that his nephews won't know exactly what they were up to. Right now, though, it’s okay. 

They’re okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many one-shots written about these two that I've never posted. I've even plotted an entire fic to branch off of this one that I've been sitting on for years. I have failed this fandom but I intend to right my wrongs.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
